faderift | And as we wind on down the road

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The Herald of Andraste is laid to rest, and the remains of the Inquisition try to put on a good face for their visitors. Some of them try, anyway.
WHEN: Harvestmere 26
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: n/a

The day after the mysterious strangers from the rift arrive, the Herald's body is delivered back to Skyhold. At first, there is doubt-- the timing is convenient, finally found the very day the funeral is to take place, and many still cling to hope that the Herald has somehow survived. Most, but not all, are appeased by news that the Inquisition's chief advisers have all confirmed the identity of the deceased. Preparations are accelerated: what was once to be a symbolic memorial now requires actual rites, and while some prepare the body others break down whatever can be spared for the pyre, constructed in the center of the main courtyard by another crew.

The funeral itself is a somber affair, as funerals generally are. The Great Hall has been cleared and swept but little else-- all attendees stand, and they are lucky it is a clear day, since the late afternoon sun streams in through the gaping holes in the roof. The service proceeds along strictly traditional Andrastian lines, stately and stiff. Mother Giselle provides the service and the sermon, focusing on duty, sacrifice, and the Maker's plan and concluded with a recitation of Transfigurations 10:1 by the whole assemblage. It is all very predictable, but sincerely delivered. Cassandra and Cullen lead the honor guard. It is a mismatched collection of visiting dignitaries, suspicious observers, pilgrims, colleagues, and companions that slowly process up to pay their silent respects as Evelyn Trevelyan lies in state. Some may notice that the body has been carefully arranged to disguise the fact that her left hand is gone. As night falls they light candles and then the pyre, and as the flames catch and lick up toward the star-washed sky, Mother Giselle sings a haunting version of the Chantry hymn The Dawn Will Come.

The wake that follows is less staid. It seems as if every table and chair in the castle has been dragged into The Herald's Rest and the courtyards and every hidden store of fine wine and food has been dug out from Josephine's secret stores to impress the more exalted visitors. This isn't just a funeral, after all, but a political occasion, an opportunity to demonstrate that the Inquisition lives on beyond the loss of its first symbolic leader, and that it can still be a force for peace and unity.

That impression is dented as the night wears on, and opinions and stories get shared more and more loudly. Someone hops up on a table to give their own little eulogy and others follow suit. Of course eventually it turns sour-- a templar gets up and starts blaming the mages for killing the Herald just like they killed the Divine, and mages at the next table shout back. He's hauled down before things can escalate, but grumbling and dirty looks are unlikely to be the last of it.

The event carries on into the wee hours, and noise echoes around the stone walls loudly enough to make it difficult for any to sleep early. One team of Inquisition scouts and soldiers comes out of the barn to complain more than once, and eventually move their bedrolls down into a basement hall, growling about how they have to be up at the crack of dawn to head out on a mission to scout some Maker-forsaken bog of all the places. (Mire, one of them corrects.)

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She raises an eyebrow as she, at last considering that brawl detour, reaches the fabled bar and the tender behind it. She isn't here to be drunk, but an ale seems the least she deserves after this monster of an evening. So she orders two, one for herself and one for the boy to hold against his deepening bruises, if nothing else.

"Losing at brawls and non-fatal falling skills aren't what bring people to the Inquisition."

"True," He admits, happy to take the ale, and then holding it up to hers in a toast.

"I'm a scout, if we are to be particular. I spend most of my time finding myself in new places, and then telling people about them, and managing not to get myself killed while doing so. The non-fatal falling skills actually come in quite useful, in that case."

She meets the toast with a light tap of her own tankard, looking slightly pleased with herself at being right. The boy did have some talents worth talking about.

"You should open with that. Talk too much about story telling and people might take you for a bard."

"I'm used to roaming too much, where the scouting is less interesting than the stories," Gavin admits with a grin. "But I'm no bard - at least not in the Orlesian sense of the word. Give me a target? I'll hit it for you. But ask me to assassinate someone...? I'll probably end up with a best friend, or a lover, by the end of the night. Or both."

It may have already actually happened.

He really wasn't an assassin.

"That's what a bard might say."

Not that she believes it. She's seen the craftiness of the order, but even they have limits. Or so she thought.

"But it's hard to see the glory or tale in your latest battle scar."

"Oh give me another ale and an hour and I'll end up telling it with a Dragon, a horde of undead and a woman in bright shining templar armour coming to my rescue." He grinned at her and took a sip of his ale.

"Though I suppose I should actually learn what the name of my rescuer is, at some point, if she would be so kind as to tell me."

"Maria Hill. Knight of the Order. If there are to be songs, at least keep some truth to the tail."

The best lies are based in truth and all that.

"And the name of my prize?"

"Gavin," he replied with a grin, more than happy to be the Knight's prize. "Of the Dalish Clan Ashara. And I can only imagine any song made better with a valiant knight in it. The beautiful part helps too, obviously."

She opened her mouth to reply- and there was another Marker-be-damned mage glaring at her- them?- from the corner. Possibly a friend of the scorned one from a moment before. Maria frowned briefly, then took another swallow of her ale. A long, possibly draining about half swallow. The rest will just have to be left behind.

"Valiant is wonderful for stories, but discretion usually works better in reality. We should step outside."

He followed her eyes to the corner, his ears drooping slightly as he saw them being watched.

It was going to be a long night.

"Ah - I think you may be right," He admitted, quickly finishing his ale. He considered asking the bartender for a bottle they could take with them, but in reality, tonight was not a night when he wanted to be drunk. He put the glass down, before offering Maria his arm in a fairly ridiculous fashion. Not that he really expected her to take it, but it seemed the most amusing thing to do.

Much as predicted, Maria gave an amused shake of her head before placing one hand on his elbow to gently force his arm down.

"I'm not the escorted in this one, serah. When you've rescued me in battle, then we can talk."

For now, it was all pushing the crowd aside to slip from the tavern. If the mages wanted to follow at least they would be in the open air. Practice dummies were replaceable, people caught in crossfire were not.

That made him laugh. "We might be waiting a while, then, unless you need anything shot."

Luckily it seemed that any will to fight had left their opponents by the time the stepped outside. Gavin stretched almost immediately, very much like a cat, enjoying the cool air after the stuffiness of the tavern. He turned to grin at her.

"So where were you planning to escort me, maserre, if it wasn't merely 'anywhere but here'?"

And as we wind on down the road

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